


a one-way trip to the streets

by arbhorwitch



Series: everything that kills me makes me feel alive [2]
Category: Pacific Rim (2013)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Mental Health Issues, Pre-Canon, Violence, rule number two: don't get blood on the specimens
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-05
Updated: 2013-08-05
Packaged: 2017-12-22 11:52:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/912884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arbhorwitch/pseuds/arbhorwitch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Maybe he likes the pain. Maybe he likes pissing Hermann off. Regardless, there's blood on his hands and in his mouth and that's enough to keep him sane.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a one-way trip to the streets

The first time it happens, Hermann’s fingers are covered in chalk dust and Newt feels as if he’s going to vomit on the floor.

The problem with that isn’t that he’s going to vomit, because even the best make mistakes, but that he’s dangerously close to the boundary line set up haphazardly in their makeshift temp-lab. If he upchucks on Hermann’s side of the room, Newt is never going to hear the end of it, and some things just aren’t worth it; his hands shake, he stares at the tips of his fingers, bloody nails, the stains on his sleeve. He needs to stop wearing white when he goes out on the streets, because this is the third shirt this week he’s managed to ruin. He’ll work on stain-remover later; right now Hermann is clutching a piece of chalk between index and thumb, a crack running along the stick, and on any other night Newt could probably turn it into poetry and sharp notes on strings. Now, now he’s going to keel over and die, that sounds so much _easier_.

“What in the _bloody_ hell have you done, Newton?”

He can point out the unintentional pun, seeing as Hermann never puns on purpose, or he can grin stupidly and slump against the nearest wall. He goes for option B and searches for a third door, a way out, but he’s trapped; so he heads up to the wall on his right, shoves a table out of his way, knocks over at least one vial with ominous blue liquid swirling in the glass. He slips down, hits the floor hard, and counts the cracks along the ceiling—there was forty-two the last time he counted, but this place is falling apart, so he’ll bet his left shoe that there’s more. Not the right, though—he’s right-handed.

“Damn it, why must you make things so _difficult_ —“ a snap of fingers, directly in front of his face, followed by, “Name, what is your name?”

“Stupid question,” is his answer, and sweet, sweet darkness is his reward.

 

The first time it happens, he wakes up with something like a hangover and tastes blood on his lips; there’s a note taped to his hand with familiar scrawl, and he’s in his bed, surprisingly, but it’s as uncomfortable as always and that’s a small relief. His back aches, his wrist is swollen and bandaged, and something sticky like gauze rests on his forehead. He remembers one drink then two then six, and he remembers large hands in curled fists and cold, cold gravel.

He rips the note from his hand.

_If I see you in the lab today, I will not hesitate to damage your kneecap with my cane._

It’s nameless. He almost grins.

 

It goes like this, in no particular order: ribs, hands, nose, thumb, lip. A drink too many, a quick wit not fueled by alcohol; a step too far and here’s a bruise, there’s some blood, and sometimes he’s a body in the street and sometimes he’s the one leaving them motionless on the sidewalk. He’s knocked into brick walls, a _crack_ of his head meeting surface—they ask him, what are you doing? they say, you’re going to get yourself killed.

But the truth is, it’s been a year since stepping foot into the Shatterdome and it’s been six months since his forced space-sharing with a man who hates him, and it’s been months and months since he’s seen his parents, and it’s been years since he’s picked up a guitar. It’s been days since his last pill and weeks since the insomnia started, and the blood on his hands and in his mouth is warmer than the chilly, acidic air back in the lab, the judging and the displeasure. Newt’s not insane, he’s _not_ , he’s fine, not that it matters what anyone thinks anyway because he’s painted with the demons from his mind come to life.

Each frantic hit to his body is just another reminder that he’s alive. He’s _alive_.

 

Hermann doesn’t like it; he doesn’t like the blood dripping on the floor, and he doesn’t like the way Newt’s eyes look more vibrant surrounded by fading and blossoming yellows and blues and purples. He doesn’t like the blood on his hands or in his mouth, and Newt doesn’t care, because the bruises belong to him and him alone.

He tells Hermann on a Tuesday night, blood-teeth and a twisted ankle, “It’s got nothing to do with you,” but Hermann counters with, “I’m the one who has to clean up after you!” 

“Don’t pretend you care,” Newt bites out, bites his tongue, swallows the pain. “You’re not my fucking babysitter.”

“No, I’m not,” and a piece of gauze is snug over the gashes on his knuckles. His skin is cold. “I’d be getting paid far too little if that was the case.”

Newt contemplates breaking the other man’s jaw.

 

It’s the little things, really:

Hermann doesn’t tell the psyches that Newt is losing it, and in return, Newt gives him space. A fair trade, he thinks, and Pentecost checks on them while the air is below freezing and Newt feels feverish with rage. He doesn’t need to be protected, tells Hermann to knock it off, but all that gets him is chalk thrown at his face and a fuming scientist for a partner; he haunts the streets one, two, three times a week, Mako finds him bleeding and shivering in a hallway at three in the morning. Max sleeps on his chest when Newt falls asleep in the lab, fingers sore, and Chuck doesn’t say a word. The general consensus is that most want to punch him in the face or up his meds or, maybe, give him a hug, but he thrives on anonymity and prefers the Boneslums over the Shatterdome. He drinks six cups of coffee in less than twelve hours and his experiments and reports are wildly disorganized. He wonders if Pentecost regrets this decision yet, and then he wonders when he became his sixteen-year-old self.

Newt hates himself just a bit more, isn’t sure if he’s up or down or stuck in limbo.

 

Two months is a long time, but he wakes up and finds feeling in his limbs, eyes bright and the world steadier than it has been; he can breathe, and he does, and his lungs ache with desperate need. It’s raining outside, a common thing as of late, and he can already tell it’s going to be a better day.  

There’s a note taped to his morning coffee when he saunters into the lab, bruises fading and split lip healing, and he nearly misses it because there’s a shipment of raw kaiju body-bits awaiting his scalpel; the coffee is black, cooled down, and Newt snorts at the scribbled message on a blue post-it.

_The new lab will be ready this afternoon. I’ve already claimed my half; I suggest you claim yours while you still can._

It’s nameless. He grins. 

**Author's Note:**

> another one wheezes
> 
> i'm p unhappy w/ this but whatever if i keep looking at it i'm gonna delete it all hnng 
> 
> once again thank u to melissa for inspiring these 8)


End file.
